


the sly traveller, counting costs

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [24]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Domeric Bolton is a Good Bro, I cannot believe I have to use that tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, In which Ramsay thinks he's about to face a love triangle, Jealousy, M/M, Porn With Plot, Possessive!Ramsay, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Rough Sex, Self-Mutilation, Under-negotiated Kink, about damn time hahaha, actual flaying has made its way into one of my Bolton fics, and he's so not down with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: One: Ramsay uses his every advantage to prove what he can do for Pod.Two: Ramsay takes preemptive steps to avoid this battle he is not sure he can win.Three: Ramsay and Dom accidentally stumble across a solution that is less bloody than anticipated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _He who wishes to fight must first count the cost._  
>  -Sun Tzu, The Art of War.

Ramsay watched a single scalding tear slide down Pod’s pale cheek, transecting his regal nose to slip over the tip like a lone drop of rainwater. Uncharacteristically careful, Ramsay lay very still beneath the younger man, who was balanced on his cock and desperate to be fucked. It was almost too tempting to resist. Rocking up into Pod’s willing arse would be so easy. But refusing to drive his hips or allow Pod to roll his own, and work himself into the frenzy of ecstasy he so clearly craved,  was so much more satisfying. Despite having taken his pleasure already, Pod was actually driven to tears of frustration, so keen was he on another climax.

Delaying his own gratification was not a sensation Ramsay had ever considered bothering to try. Not until he and his boys spent a few long hours working through several barrels of ale, and discussed the merits of young bodies versus old. According to some, old men had more stamina, and could be relied upon to keep their partner’s pleasure rolling onward. Repeatedly bringing their lover close to the edge but refusing to allow them the pleasure of tipping over it. This, Ramsay felt he and Pod had already mastered. Surely, this game alone could not lure a young lover into the arms of an old man?

Ramsay had pressed Alyn for more details, and learnt that some men could conserve their own releases, or else achieve several, and drive into their lover repeatedly, until the other had no more seed to give.

“A man can still find his peak, even if his seed has run dry. He’ll still shiver, toes curling as he cries out, just the same,” Alyn swore, with glinting eyes that told of the dark deeds he had done to discover such things.

“But he’s more exhausted, weak, shocked that it’s possible. Scared,” Alyn continued with a sour grin, “Pain and pleasure wrapped inside t’other and unable to be separated.”

Ramsay could not help but hang on his every word. Ramsay had never cared if the bitches he played with felt any pleasure; his was the only pleasure that mattered. He’d never learnt how to make any woman feel good, save for Myranda, and perhaps Violet and Tansy, two of his favoured whores. But all that was in the time before Pod.

Father had stopped Ramsay from hunting his preferred game, when the Dreadfort began being constantly traipsed through by visiting Starks. Lord Bolton had banned all of Ramsay’s games altogether, once they had been invaded by Westermen hostages, lest word get out about the hospitality they received. Starks were not known for their patience with Boltons, at the best of times. They could ill afford to fall from Robb Stark’s favour, when all of the North had united in their common goal, geared up for war with the South.

Of course Ramsay had found ways to evade and disobey his father, none could be shocked at that. But even as young as he had been then, Ramsay was not stupid enough to chase maidens or whores across open land, while their hills were patrolled by Northern soldiers from many Houses. While the castle was full of strangers, Father’s punishment for any embarrassment brought to light would be severe.  Dark deeds must by necessity be performed in secret, if one wishes to continue doing them. Ramsay did not doubt his father would be happy to send him to the Wall or chop of one of his hands, if he displeased him enough. Thus, Ramsay had found other ways to entertain himself. The Dreadfort was housing a number of hostages, after all, and most of them were of little consequence to anyone.

Somehow, Ramsay had never gotten around to resuming his favoured hunting, upon the return from war. Ramsay had barely settled back into his rooms, it seemed, before they were called to march upon the Others. When by some miracle they survived that also, though not without heavy losses, Ramsay was more concerned with ensuring a regular supply of food for himself and the family he tolerated, than the games he might play.

After the fall of the Others, Ramsay certainly had neither the time nor inclination to seek out the smallfolk that remained. Harassing in order to see what he could learn from playing with them was pointless, if it meant culling them to extinction. Ramsay was too busy, with a small son to protect, a lover to cherish and a brother to mind. There were always prisoners to torment, if he needed some time alone to indulge.

Sour Alyn had his own games, and a long experience with them. Ramsay didn’t often interrupt such things, lest he desired a turn himself, with a particular wretch. They sometimes reminisced over past pleasures, but rarely. Ramsay was always foraging for new opportunities, he was not a man who wasted time idly reflecting on past glories. Perhaps he had missed a trick there, however, as he came to learn many rumours about the male body he had not actively made note of before. Taking note of Alyn’s advice, Ramsay was too deep in his cups to note that Damon had stopped quaffing his ale so enthusiastically, and was watching their hushed conversation. He did notice the frown upon Damon’s brow, but as this was such a common expression on his companion’s face, Ramsay thought little of it.

It did not take long for peaked interest to become hungry thoughts. Ramsay let the ale fuelling his recklessness die back a little, by breaking into the kitchens to consume of a vast quantity of sausages that had been rolled and cooked in pastry. Then he stumbled to his rooms, and into the soft, doughy arms of his lover. Eager to be encased in Pod’s cushioned warmth, and try out all his new ideas.

Pod received Ramsay’s deep, dizzying kisses and pawing hands with grace. Not protesting when Ramsay bit down hard on his neck and lips. Soothing the beast that had invaded his featherbed with patient, gentle words and stroking hands, until Ramsay carelessly dropped into a heavy sleep atop him. When Ramsay woke, he remembered little of the night before, save for the urge to test Alyn’s promises of pleasure.

Now, Ramsay settled deep inside Pod’s lovely hot flesh, the secret parts of him that he shared with no others. Ramsay was going to press for more pleasure than Podrick wanted, but it was very difficult to contain such urges, to draw them out. No other creature had ever garnered such carnal sympathy and affection from Ramsay. Compassion was a state which did not come naturally to any Bolton, especially not a bastard off-shot from the main branch.  
  
"Please," Podrick breathed out in a whimper, fighting had to keep his voice even, "Ramsay, please. I can't finish again without-"  
  
His voice was shaking with barely contained misery. Ramsay rolled them over, pinning Podrick to the featherbed with the weight of his strong muscles.

 _See how fit I still am,_ his body seemed to sing. _Why would any sane man prefer sagging flesh to the young, virile body I can still offer?_ _Who could possibly work your body into such a state of frenzy, better than I?_

Possessive jealousy and avarice battled for dominance over his actions. Ramsay's head ordered him to exert his authority, while his heart pleaded with him not to push Pod too far, lest they frighten him away.

With his legs now up and about Ramsay’s waist, Pod quickly tightened his thick thighs around Ramsay, as if to anchor him in place, or else squeeze him like a rider jockeys a mare. With Ramsay's cock buried deep inside him, but the man unwilling to pound his flesh any rougher, there was little else Pod could do but whine: starved as he was for release. Pod knew better than to attempt to paw at his own lovely cock. Deliciously curved and dribbling slick from the angry head, so hard it was flushed almost purple. It bounced between them with every shift of their bodies, smearing wet slick and drying seed across both their stomachs.

Pod’s haggard breaths were dancing upon the edge of uncontrolled sobbing, a fact which only made Ramsay harder, and less willing to comply. Pod said nothing more, however, all too aware of how Ramsay generally dismissed begging. Though his eyes shone with tears, Pod did not attempt to push Ramsay away, nor ask him to continue. Instead, he bit his plump lower lip and once more demonstrated his boundless obedience, laying still and quiet, a strangled lamb.

After a long exhale, revelling in the power he exerted, Ramsay rolled his hips, brutal and hard. Pod’s nails at first bit into his bare shoulders, before he flung out a single hand to press against the headboard of their featherbed. Lest his head be slammed repeatedly into the wood due to Ramsay’s enthusiastic thrusts. Wails were stymied in Pod’s throat. He was clearly determined not to show any more vulnerability, despite the searing line of his own cock, revealing all his secrets as warm slick burbled out. Naturally, Pod’s reticence only led to Ramsay trying harder to break Pod’s will. Screams and whimpers were two of his favourite noises, after all.  
  
Ramsay leaned in harder, altering the angle to press in deeper. Forcing himself to work his hips slower, in agonisingly prolonged rolls. Brushing light kisses over Podrick's brow, before dropping down to capture his mouth in a quick nibble. That finally made Pod sob out loud again. Ramsay nuzzled at his lover’s tear-stained cheeks, grinding his cock as deep as he could manage.

"I cannot!"

The plea tumbled out of Podrick's mouth before he could bite it back.

But it was a weak wail, so easy to set aside. He was so close to the precipice, Ramsay couldn’t deny him now: and yet he must. If this was to work as an enduring reminder, the build up must be slow, the final release implausibly astonishing. Pod slowly rocked his hips, fucking himself on Ramsay's cock in little motions, seeing what he could get away with before Ramsay seized hold of them to still him. Ramsay rolled his hips, uncompromisingly rough, trying to find the angle that would drive Podrick wild. Curling Pod’s hips up by hand, as he leaned down to kiss him, swallowing his protests.

Before long, Pod was keening into Ramsay’s mouth, close to breaking, high-pitched, needy noises that made Ramsay shudder in sympathy. Pod was so close to the end of his tether, so ready to fall. He couldn't hold back forever, not when Podrick was beneath him like this, begging for it. Ramsay could already feel the siren call of his own pleasure, building in his stones, threatening to drag him over before Pod. That, he could not allow.

Ramsay stoppered up Pod’s eager mouth with deeper, tonguing kisses, fucking him relentlessly until Podrick groaned, and his cock jerked between them, splattering seed against their skin before it pooled on his own soft tummy. Podrick wailed into Ramsay’s mouth, shivering through his release. Ramsay’s dicking was enough to loosen his hole considerably, though it still clenched reflexively, clamping down tight in an attempt to draw out Ramsay’s seed.

“Desperate little tart,” Ramsay chided breathlessly, strong enough to withstand such temptation. Concentrating instead on Pod’s incredulous screech, as Ramsay snapped his hips, continuing to fuck him roughly through his after-shivers. The obscene sounds of their punishing sex echoed across the bare stone of their chamber walls.

"Keep going," Podrick chanted, breathlessly. “Fuck, Ramsay, don’t stop-”

He whined, in pleasure and pain, just as Ramsay had been promised. All the while, Pod’s wet, furiously hot dick was still twitching and pulsing out his remaining seed in occasional, pathetic little dribbles. Ramsay leaned forward, kissing Pod roughly, his cruel teeth splitting Pod’s lower lip and drawing blood. But now Pod matched his hardness, surging up to dig his talons into Ramsay's back, dragging him even closer.

Eventually, Ramsay broke their intense embrace to drive his hips harder, holding himself up and back, over Podrick his head bobbing like a pendulum. Ramsay’s pace was unrelenting, until Pod howled. Ramsay groaned, not willing to deny himself again. Pod’s arse and cock were both pulsing, despite the fact his cock had no seed to release, nothing to spill as he arched up under Ramsay, his back bending like a longbow. Pod was wrung dry. Ramsay finally followed him down through the rabbit hole. Once again shooting his seed into the messy, clinging velvet of Pod’s arse. It was hot and very slick, but not half so tight as it had been. Ramsay dropped his head down to press soft, apologetic kisses onto Podrick's heaving chest - yet continuing to work his dick inside that slack hole, rough and hard as he emptied out his seed.

Humming idly when eased out, Ramsay quickly slipped in three fingers into Pod’s wet hole, wringing out a distorted noise of shock from his lover. Pod shook from the continued onslaught, pressing his face into the pillows upon their featherbed, clutching the covers in his hands and waiting for the inevitable continuation.

“Don’t worry, my love,” Ramsay cooed, blissfully content, “I’ll take good care of you.”


	2. Chapter 2

The following morn, Ramsay yanked at his leather doublet in an effort to make it line up straighter in the glass before him. The slightly worn leather had been scuffed in a few places from general use, but such things could not be helped. The item remained a favourite of Ramsay’s, and he was reluctant to part with it. Once it lay properly, the laces at the front lying neatly down the exact centre of his chest, it was very fetching indeed. Lending him a kind of lordly countenance, that he had never much projected before.

Under normal circumstances, Ramsay didn’t give a rot for other people’s opinions of him, be they afeared or in awe of his fierce reputation. Going about his business with no regard for what others may think of his actions, save for Dom and Pod, and to a lesser extent, Lady Gwyn. His stepmother had his father’s ear, and they had all found life at the Dreadfort much more comfortable since her permanent installment. Ramsay would not like to see what should happen, were he to fall out of her favour. But on this morn, on a day where the North seemed entirely fashioned from shades of muted gray, from the heavy rain clouds menacing the sky down to the pockmarked earth, Ramsay felt the need to be formidable, to all and sundry.

He wore his best sword, and new leather gloves with a thick woolen lining, to wield it with, since it was made of Starksteel. And his blood didn’t carry a drop of the necessary immunity from its frigid menace. But Ramsay would be damned to the Seven Hells before he let the chance of freezing a man solid pass him by.

Despite his chosen weaponry, today’s enemy could not be felled by sword nor arrow, not if Ramsay wanted to keep his head, and their battlefield was one of words and appearance, rather than military movement and political strategy. Ramsay was well versed in inflicting torture upon the mind and body, but he had never had cause to break a man from afar, whom he could not physically abuse in some manner.

Still, he knew it could be done. Men spoke of inflicting terror as the ultimate long-range weapon, so affecting the opponent’s men that they would be more likely to flee than stay and fight. Tywin Lannister had utilised this, ensuring a whole continent was terrified of his retribution, after he had dealt with the rebellious Reynes and Tarbecks. Men thought twice about their loyalties to such a liege. Father was another such man, his cold demeanour and complete lack of humour a clear indication that he would take no insult as a jest. The Lord of the Dreadfort was a man seldom crossed, reliant on his reputation to prevent the need for excessive bloodshed.

Even Robb Stark silenced wagging tongues, and no man insulted the crannogmen within the walls of Winterfell, if they ever hoped to gain their King’s favour. Would that Ramsay could exert such a level of rigid obedience. Men were frightened of his battlefield conduct, but the years since the war were slipping by on a raven’s wings, and men’s memories could be short, despite the declarations that the North remembers.

Ramsay knew no man wanted to face him in combat, but it was quite another thing to dismiss his bond with Podrick. As if mentally aware that Ramsay had thought of him, the man in question rolled over in bed, blinking blearily with eyes still thick with sleep.

“Why are you dressed?” Pod asked, stretching and yawning in the same breath, exhausted from their games. “The sun hasn’t yet risen, and we don’t ride out for hours yet. Come back to bed, love.”

Ramsay smiled softly, in a manner he still did not think himself capable of, nor would he expect to know the feel of upon his face. Were it not for the glass which captured his reflection, he would not know the soft look upon his skin to be his own flesh. He stalked across the room in short strides, taking the hand that was reached out to him in supplication. He pressed a firm kiss to sleep-warmed fingers, and saw the acceptance of the inevitable denial in Pod’s eyes.

“Go back to sleep, sweetling,” Ramsay purred, “I’ve business to attend, despite the hour, and we need not both suffer.”

Pod sighed, taking back his hand. But his smile was gentle, if not a tad amused at Ramsay’s capacity for self-infliction. Pod was not an early riser, and he would curse the Seven he no longer prayed to if Ramsay had suggested he leave the bed himself.

He accepted the kiss Ramsay pressed to his forehead with a hum, before his curiosity forced him to ask what business exactly could not wait until a decent hour. The answer Ramsay gave him was enough to have his eyebrows shooting into his mussed hairline, but he snuggled down into the covers when Ramsay again bid him to get more sleep. He was already lightly snoring by the time Ramsay quietly closed the door to their chambers behind himself.

He darted down the familiar corridors of the Dreadfort with a light foot, content to make his way by inner sense alone, the sconces no longer burning, and the arrow slits at this level not wide enough to let in enough light to see by. A murder could be committed in such darkness and not be discovered for hours, Ramsay had often thought, on early mornings when he had lain awake musing on whatever foul insult Father had recently bestowed upon him. But such thoughts were probably idle. He could not guarantee such a deed would never have its author discovered, and he did not want to ever face a day where he was placed between his brother and the bannermen that would surely abandon Domeric over the crime of kinslaying. Ramsay could not place his brother in such a position. Not when there was a small part of him that was not entirely sure Dom would allow him to escape retribution for such an act.

Ramsay alighted the staircase which led to the quickest route outside, with ease and no incident. He quickly found himself outside in the still dark morn, the moon not yet fallen, though the sun crested the ink blue waves of the horizon. He crunched through the frosted dew of the muddy courtyard, his breath visible in the rimy air. The steps he trod was not a familiar path, having no reason to tread them often, save for ceremonial events.

Ramsay entered the godswood with the brash overconfidence of the insecure, not arrogant enough to be dismissive, but with his chest puffed up as though the gods were already judging him. And perhaps they were. In the wood, the air seemed closer, the sky darker below the close-growing trees, hawthorns, ironwoods, elms, ashes and yews, many twined together so that their branches grew twisted about one another like the guts of man. Ramsay eyed the bare brittle branches with distaste, bleak and black as they were in the low light. He stomped toward the heart tree with bold steps, already annoyed at his decision to come. He was not foolish enough to place much stock in the gods, who did not appear to care much for the affairs of men. Ramsay had never been a spiritual man, nor was he raised to be. The gods turned away from the bloody deeds of Bolton men, he suspected. The severe, terrible face that was carved upon the gigantic but squat weirwood faced away from the castle, which seemed to confirm it.

The was something wild about a godswood, even the ones in the South, like the pretty one at Riverrun with its flowering shrubs and fruit-bearing trees. The one at Raventree Hall was impressive, despite its dead weirwood heart tree. The thousand beady eyes of the ravens clutching its withered branches seemed to welcome him there. No godswood could be more inhospitable to men than the Dreadfort’s homage to the gods, especially at night when the close-knit trees did not allow moonlight nor stars to shine upon the ground.

Ramsay was careful not to lose his footing, less familiar with this aspect of the Dreadfort than perhaps any other place, save the Lord’s chambers, his father’s private rooms.

When he at last stood before the heart tree, he was glad no one was around to hear the skittering thump of his treacherous heart, which stuttered at the sight of that gaping maw. He could not decide if the Child who had carved it had intended for it to be screaming out in anger, or else in agony. Then he considered the legacy of the Red Kings, who were said to wear cloaks made of Stark skin, and decided agony was the more likely.

Ramsay knelt before the ugly face, red sap spilling from one corner of the hanging mouth like spittle or frothing bile. He considered his plight, before making his offering to the gods. Many Northmen had been appalled to learn that in the days Tyr Stark hailed from, blood sacrifices to the gods before a weirwood was commonplace. But something in Ramsay had settled at the thought of it, like a forgotten ditty dancing on the tip of his tongue, suddenly remembered. They said the sap and leaves had taken their crimson colour from the blood of the holy sacrifices.

Kneeling before it now, Ramsay did not doubt it. He drew his favourite flaying knife from the sheath he kept in the small of his back, and carefully folded back the sleeve of his doublet and the tunic below. With seldom-used words of respect, he pleaded for the gods to hear his prayer, and he slipped the tip of the knife he had carefully cleaned below the paper-thin folds of his own flesh. Gritting his teeth, so that no ungrateful utterance of pain he slid the flat thin blade beneath the first layer of skin on his forearm.

Grunting with the effort of keeping his arm still, lest he shake and slit his wrist clean open, he peeled the skin back like the thin film on a segment of an orange, biting back a moan as it began to hang loose. Ruby red blood blossomed on the pink, exposed under-section of his arm, sliding down his pale skin to drip into the dirt below. The ground gobbled it up, the gods greedy for their sustenance. Ramsay continued his work, the burning pain almost pleasureable, as his nerves screamed out the protest he refused to give voice to. Slowly, the flesh was sliced away, clean and neat like a carved beast upon a lord’s table, slipping from his body as though it desired to rip away as quick as possible. The knife stripped the skin with brutal efficiency, the flop of the rendered piece almost comical as it hung loose, the arm it lately clung to stinging in protest of the treatment.

When at last the section was a long, thin rectangle, Ramsay made an incision with the tip of the blade along the still attached edge, so that the skin slipped free, floating from its former home about his person to flutter to the ground, bloody and wet.

Grinding his teeth, he made a fist of his left hand and turned his arm this way and that, to admire his work. The shiny, blood-slick skin would leave a handsome scar, he thought, something akin to the scrape of a pike, were he to have met the lance of a cavalry man in battle. Ramsay put away his blade, and pulled a small leather wine-skin from his pocket, pouring a liberal dash of a deep red over the shallow wound. Even the slightest cut was capable of seeding an infection, and he had no desire to lose a hand.

Clean bandages, stolen earlier within the sennight from Maester Wolkan’s supplies, soon followed. Ramsay secured the tightly wound cloth with a splodge of sap from the drooling weirwood face. Whispering his supplications to the gods, he could only hope that his offering would be found worthy. Reverently, Ramsay plucked his skin from the sodden earth, and placed it gently in the mouth of the terrible and chilling carved face. 

Then Ramsay steeled himself, rolling down his sleeves to cover all evidence of the wound, and tugged out the collar of his favourite doublet with vain flick of his fingers. Thus the time for piety was abruptly done, and Ramsay returned to the usual arrogant swagger he was so known for. He now had the gods upon his shoulders. They would help him expose the godless Southron heathen envoy, whose conniving ways had convinced all others that he had no deep, hidden agenda. But Ramsay knew a shrewd man when he saw one, and he had no intention of losing any precious goods to an old conman. Sauntering out of the godswood of the Dreadfort, Ramsay Redbolt prepared to meet his foe: the ever so duplicitous Ser Davos Seaworth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay is so fucking extra, omg.
> 
> It was my great-grandma's funeral on Thurs 24th, that's why the latest update was slow. I've been dealing with my grief and it has not been easy. Writing has been more cathartic than I expected. Thanks to everyone who has commented! It's super encouraging to know you're out there reading xx


	3. Chapter 3

Ramsay glared at his foe, standing at a good distance. Enough to keep the old man within eye-line, without the ugly old lecher cottoning on. Ramsay had been as patient as he could manage, but the day of reckoning had come. No man had the right to waltz into the Dreadfort and attempt to steal Pod right from under his nose. The fact that a man had even dared to believe it possible, was insult enough to warrant his death- envoy to a Targaryen Prince or not. Ramsay’s plan was quite simple; lure Ser Davos away from the others and gut him like a pig. Then leave his festering carcass for the ravens. When Father’s men came looking, they would conclude bandits, and send out riders to deal with the threat. Some unfortunate men would be executed for it; and that would be the end of it. Pod and Father would be none the wiser, and life in the Dreadfort would continue as it should.

Naturally, nothing was ever as uncomplicated as one might hope. Ramsay’s main obstacle turned out to be Dom. His elder brother had been shooting him concerned looks since he’d caught Ramsay watching Seaworth’s first sneaking attempt to seduce his Pod. Dom thought Ramsay’s suspicions were ridiculous, though he did not dare to say as much; not until today, in the courtyard. Ramsay had been sequestered beside the entrance to the kennels, having just finished feeding his bitches. His girls had been snarling and growling at one another as they clawed and shredded their meat. Satisfied with their savagery, Ramsay slid carefully back toward the light of the main courtyard.

He watched with disgust and bubbling fury as Seaworth approached Pod, who was busy directing stablehands, reading supplies for the upcoming hunt. Ramsay watched their exchange in silence, fuming as Pod laughed at something the grizzled old man said. Ramsay envisioned tearing out Seaworth’s tongue with his bare hands. Seaworth would never be able to make another man laugh then, would he?

Ramsay struggled to control his breathing, doing his best to imagine the look of distaste on Pod’s face, if Ramsay were to simply march across the cobbled yard, and punch Seaworth in the throat. Before Ramsay had much chance to test how reliable his patience actually was, Dom appeared beside him, subdued as always.

“Ramsay,” Dom drawled, “Even if Davos - who is a happily wedded man, I understand - was interested in tumbling Podrick… You know Pod would never allow it. You must know that.”

“Do I?” Ramsay hissed defiantly, fingernails digging crescent moons into his palms.

Dom offered him a withering look, before snatching hold of his shoulder, roughly dragging Ramsay into the shadowy recess at the entrance to the kennels.

“Talk to me,” he whispered, pressing his cold forehead against Ramsay’s clammy skin.

Ramsay flexed his fists, trying to resist the tempest brewing in his stomach. It was beginning to churn like a whirlpool, making him nauseous and even angrier that he had allowed himself to succumb to such weakness. Rarely had Domeric ever sparked his anger. Ramsay’s fingers began to shake uncontrollably with the urge to push his brother way.

“Release me,” he whispered, his breath coming in harsh, choking pants.

“Ramsay-”

“Let me go!” Ramsay roared, suddenly throwing all his weight forwards.

But Dom was too fast for him. He had dived after Ramsay, dragging him bodily back toward the kennels. One of Dom’s large hands was pressed against Ramsay’s mouth, the other clenched around his wrist, as his brother dragged him into the shadows. Ramsay flailed and kicked, savage and cruel. He bit down on the vulnerable flesh of Dom’s palm, hard enough to make his brother grunt in pain, but not enough to grant his freedom. Rabid, Ramsay sunk his elbow into Dom’s gut whilst biting down harder, clamping his teeth and shaking his head brutally, until his mouth filled with his brother’s hot blood. Dom let out a scream that was almost a squeal, releasing him instantly.

Then they were brawling in actuality.

Ramsay could hear nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears. The common sounds of the Dreadfort were muted, as though his head were being pressed underwater until he choked and drowned. A punishment he had regrettable first-hand knowledge of, though Father hadn’t seen fit to use it upon him since he was much younger. But the helpless, frantic sensation was the same, the need to claw and rend and fight anything, if only to gasp in another blessed breath of air.

Dom grunted when Ramsay kicked him in the stomach, but maintained his balance enough to grab hold of his ankle, using the leverage to throw Ramsay to the ground with a sickening crunch. For a moment, Ramsay sprawled on the hard cobbles, sucking in his wheezing breath, dazed.

“Ramsay, fuck-” Dom panted, eyes blown wide in shock, apparently worried he had truly hurt him.

Naturally, Ramsay used his brother’s distraction to rear up and land a solid blow to his cheek. Dom’s head flew to the side, and then they pounced on one another again, grappling and wrestling for a hold, scratching and biting and digging into every vulnerable spot they could find. Dom yanked Ramsay’s curls harshly while punching him in the gut, and their fight finally spilled out into the daylight, attracting the surprised yells of onlookers. They traded blow for blow. Dom punched him in the mouth, forcing Ramsay to spit out his blood, before Ramsay bruised Dom’s ribs with a series of punishing jabs.

Somewhere in the distance, a woman was screaming.

Ramsay could see nothing but red; the scent of blood filling his senses. Each and every insult he had ever endured rising to the surface as he pummeled his brother. Always, he would be the overlooked, underestimated bastard. No matter that of the two of them,  _he_ was the truer Bolton. Men would always see any child of Wylla’s as Dom’s heir. But that was ridiculous, and they both knew it: Ramsay was more Dom’s child than any whelp she would ever bear. _He_ was the only son Dom would ever need. And Pod was not Ramsay’s in truth and law, not the way a wife would be. In the eyes of every other man, Pod was ripe for the plucking and Ramsay would not have it. For despite other's beliefs, now and always Dom and Pod, House Bolton and all its gory history- it was _his_ , Ramsay’s and no one else’s: they were all his.

Dom grabbed his arm, unknowingly clamping down on Ramsay’s recently-skinned wrist. Ramsay let out a blood-curdling scream as his brother dragged his injured arm behind his back, twisting cruelly as Ramsay moaned, blood spilling down his arm.

Then other hands were there, hauling the two men apart, strong arms around their shoulders preventing them from lunging at one another again. Pod was quick to wrap Ramsay in his embrace, dragging him into his arms to hold him close.

“Take the bastard to the cells!” Suggested one bold guard. Dom’s head snapped toward the man, memorising his features for a later date.

Pod stiffened, alarmed, but Ramsay did nothing as men began to advance upon him.

“Touch my brother, and by the gods, I will skin you right here, whilst your family watches.” Dom vowed, panting heavy and slow, pressing his bloody left hand against his tender stomach with a wince.

His brother glared at their Father’s guardsmen until they began to back away, unsure.

Wylla was there, sobbing and wringing her hands, always a nuisance. Ramsay wanted to snap her neck; might even have attempted to do so, if it were not for Pod clutching onto him tightly.

There was a long, pregnant silence, until Ramsay and Dom gradually stopped straining against their captors.

Annoyance stilled bubbled below Ramsay’s skin, but now it was directed at the onlookers, who would surely tell Lord Bolton about his sons’ disgraceful behaviour in the presence of a guest. Father would punish them both severely for such conduct whilst Ser Davos was hosted at the Dreadfort. Such a flagrant, public display of savagery would not go unnoticed by the wider North, but Ramsay could not regret it: not when he saw how Seaworth flinched back from him, when Pod gently began to tug Ramsay toward the safety of the keep.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Pod hissed, as they began to ascend the stairs that would eventually lead to their chamber.

Ramsay winced, saying nothing as he finally noticed the hot blood dribbling down his arm, coating his fingers. It was not an unusual sensation, but rarely was the blood his own. Podrick noticed the blood with a cry, and Ramsay knew he assumed his fight with Dom was the cause.

“It’s alright,” Ramsay soothed, “Everything will be fine now.”

Pod eyed him dubiously, but did not demand an explanation or contradict him, as most useless people would have. Instead, Pod allowed him to press a blood-filled kiss against his lips. As usual, Pod proved himself more capable than others. He gently took hold of Ramsay’s good arm, and continued to lead the way to their chambers.

Yes, Father’s punishment would be awful. Wylla would be more determined than ever to come between him and Domeric. But Ramsay knew what most men would never seem to understand; it was all worth it, for the look of horror on Seaworth’s face. No man would ever dare to try and steal Pod from him now, Ramsay was sure of it. Especially not Seaworth, not when he had seen, first-hand, just what Ramsay was capable of doing to one of the few people he had ever loved.

That Dom would not nurse a grudge against Ramsay was certain. There was nothing Ramsay could do, that would make Dom no longer love him, of that he was absolutely sure. Even if Ramsay had broken free of Podrick and attacked Wylla, he knew his brother would stand by him. It would take far more than a few injuries to break the bond between them. And far more than prestige to steal Pod from Ramsay.

Seaworth may have been granted a reprieve, but Ramsay was determined to slaughter any other man that tried to steal his lover. But as Pod clucked over Ramsay whilst carefully cleaning his wounds, he knew it would not be necessary. The Gods had heeded his prayers. Instead of allowing him to endanger himself by attempting to kill Seaworth, they had instead granted Ramsay the chance to ensure the North remembered what kind of a man Ramsay Redbolt was; and just what his beloved brother would do about it… nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, recently, I accidentally skinned off the top of my finger with a razor blade. Jesus H. Christ, the pain was unbelievable. I'm not talking about a tiny shaving nick like you might get on your legs. I'm talking peeled like a fucking orange. Blood everywhere. It was every bit as gross and awful as you're imaging. You best believe I have new appreciation for what flaying really means D': 
> 
> I'm a-okay now, and when all's said and done I now have first-hand experience of flaying so my descriptions will be more accurate, but yeah 0/10 would not recommend do not try at home  
> \\(｡>﹏<｡)/


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